Full Confession Friday, Jul 25 2008

Full confession. Here at Screw Iowa! our writing lives are driven by fantasy. Not Harry Potter, Wizard of Oz, Chronicles of Narnia, or the kind of fantasy you find in books. Real fantasy. The kind you find inside your head. Here’s what we mean.

We write a novel, type it up, and stick it in the mail to an agent. A few days later the phone rings. I’m calling about your book, the agent says. It’s amazing. I haven’t seen anything this good in years. I haven’t . . . Pause for a long, drawn-out breath. Is it still available?

Here’s another one. We’re standing at a podium in Barnes and Noble reading to a crowd of people who are sitting before us in rows of folding chairs. Everyone is silent, listening with rapt attention as we speak. Afterwards the line to buy signed copies of our book snakes through the store. I want three, a woman tells me, to give as gifts. I can’t tell you how much your writing means to me.

Ah! How about this one? You can read all about it in the New York Times Review of Books: this is one of the most important novels to come along in a generation, a wake-up call, the kind of book that appeals to adolescents but contains treasures for the adult eye . . .

And that’s only the beginning. The list goes on and on. One fantasy after another, each one better than the last. They fuel our daydreams and keep us awake at night, alternately tempting and mocking us, filling us with torture and delight.

What’s a writer to do?

To start with, hold onto your fantasies. They give your writing energy, focus, and direction. But don’t forget they’re not real. (That’s why they’re called fantasies.) The writing world has changed. The network of agents and editors that writers once relied on to support and promote their work is dwindling. In some cases, it’s not even there anymore. The best network nowadays is the one you create yourself. That’s why Screw Iowa! is here. We’re the first step to get you out of your head and into the real world. So what’s your fantasy? What keeps you awake at night? And what drives you to write?

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Screw Iowa Hooks! Monday, Jul 21 2008

Due to technical difficulties and some really crappy software development by Dotnetnuke, we’re moving our Hooks feature to the Blogosphere temporarily so you can add comments and feedback to our Hooks posts. Thanks for your patience–and go ahead and get busy leaving feedback for our First and Most Understanding Hooks Author: Ben Nightengale!!! (cue cheering and clapping)

Will people like it? Will people get it? Will they want to read more?

Sound familiar? Every writer wonders if their work is strong enough to “hook” a reader. You can test-run 250 words of your work here by sending it to Melissa at dmwest(at)hbs(dot)net. She’ll post it and set up a Forum thread so you can see what people think. As a bonus, you can add specific questions or concerns about your piece at the end and your readers will do their level best to answer them for you.

Our first Hook is from Ben Nightingale of White Plains, NY. He’s studied at Columbia University and State University of New York and his work includes articles in Ebony Magazine, Today Magazine–Philadelpphia Inquirer, The Mendicino Review, Showbill Magazine, and Obsidian. Give it a read, give it a reaction below!

TOO WHITE TO BE BLACK
TOO BLACK TO BE WHITE

“I AM TOO TULLORED”

“I am too Tullored.” My four-year-old “Colored” coming out with a “T.” One of the four black boys who surrounded me hollered, “Man—don’t lie. You’re white and you know it. You can’t fool us.”

As I tried to push my way through, I shouted—“If you don’t stop I’m going to tell my mother on you.” Laughter erupted as another boy said, “She’s not your mother.”
“You’re a liar,” I screamed. I ran to my house, crying, as they laughed and shouted—“WHITEY—WHITEY—WHITEY.”

I banged on my front door. Why had they said those things? I knew I had to be Colored. She had to be my mother. That was the world I was in—a Colored world. My mother, my family, neighborhood, church—everyone Colored. I had no memory of another world. My South Philadelphia, Martin Street world was all that existed. For me to exist, I had to be “Tullored,” even if no one believed me.

My mother finally opened the door. “What’s wrong, what happened, she asked, as she led me into the living room. We sat down, her arm around me, holding me tightly. I related it all to her as best I could. Then when my crying had subsided, I asked, “Why do they say those things to me?” She replied, “They’re ignorant and don’t know any better.”

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